No Safe Haven by Kimberley Woodhouse Page B

down the mountain, it was no use.
    Stuck. Under half a mountain of snow.
    Glancing up through the small hole, she checked the forms of her daughter and rescuer. Thankfully, Cole had covered Andie with his large frame and used the rock overhang as a shield from the onslaught of ice and snow. But Jenna had been curious, drawn to the horror of the sight below her and she'd ventured a little too far away from the cover. Ignoring the tugging of Cole's protectiveness. Her defiance and rebellion had gotten her stuck. Again.
    How stupid could she have been? What was she thinking to get so close to the edge? The moment had been so surreal—her eyes drawn to the destruction below her—but still, she should've known better. Once again, Jenna was grateful her actions hadn't taken her life. She might be buried, but at least she could breathe. And she could see her daughter. Plenty to be thankful for.
    But poor Hank. She'd known him all these years, never suspecting the evil that lurked inside. If she had been a better example to him, could she have changed this outcome? Could she have saved Hank's life? The stark emptiness of her own lack of effort made the guilt inside her grow, eating at the sensitive places of her heart. Lord, what have I done?
    The roar of the avalanche continued and made her ears ache. How long could these things last? She and Marc had many friends who climbed these mountains in their younger days. And she remembered the pictures of beautiful avalanches. Listened to the guys tell the stories of several they witnessed during one climb. So how much more snow would come down with an explosion?
    Her neck ached from holding her head up. She laid her head back down in the snow and covered her head with her arms. It still sounded like a deafening train rushing past at breakneck speed. The snow began to lose its clean smell, instead it reminded her of clothes packed away too long. If they weren't careful, they'd run out of fresh air in the few cubic feet of safety they shared.
    Voices pulled her head back up as the thunderous noise dwindled into a dull rumble and then disappeared. Jenna watched her daughter hug Cole. Tears streamed down her baby's cheeks as they both pulled gear off their heads.
    "Cole, thanks. That was so scary." Andie wiped her cheeks. "Have you seen Mom?"
    Jenna lifted her hand through the hole in the snow. "I'm here. Just buried."
    "Mom!" Her daughter shifted with stiff, awkward movements. "How do we get out of here? There's barely enough room to move—do we even have air to breathe?"
    Cole looked down at Andie. "We're going to have to dig." He turned his attention toward Jenna. "You okay?"
    "Yeah, but you better start digging. The air already feels stuffy." Jenna didn't want to voice her real thoughts. No one needed to be reminded they could suffocate.
    "Okay then." He moved a few inches. "Andie, you're going to have to reach for my axe behind me. You and I will work on ventilation holes, then dig space to move in so we can try to get your mom out."
    Andie nodded and reached for the ice axe. "Got it." She looked scared. "Cole?"
    "Yeah?"
    "Thanks again."
    "No problem. You would've done the same for me, right?" He winked at her daughter. Jenna could have hugged him for helping to lighten the moment.
    "Um, sure. 'Cause I'm so big and strong and protective." The twinkle in Andie's eyes was back.
    Cole reached toward Andie's hair, but quickly withdrew his hand.
    "Cole, you really gotta stop stuffing all your emotions down. It's not good for you."
    Good ol' therapist Andie.
    Their rescuer just stared down at her. Then he shook his head. "You make me smile, Squirt."
    Jenna's heart thundered in her chest. How would Andie react to that nickname? Breath in her throat, she silently watched and waited.
    Tears began to glisten on Andie's pink cheeks.
    Cole frowned. "What's wrong?"
    "My dad . . . he used to call me that when I was little." Andie swiped at her face. "I just miss him."
    "Hey, I'm sorry." Cole inched